Like father and son (or mother and daughter, or…)

Four followers: our little Crow, with a little Swan, a little Cat and a little Blue Boy.

This morning I dropped our eldest boy at kindergarten wearing an Adelaide Crows football top. It wasn’t meant to be like this. They’re having a football-dress-up last day and we had discussed teams and what he might like to wear. I had said I would make him a little Richmond jumper with a black top, some yellow fabric, and pins, needle and thread.

In the sewing, I had hoped he might come to understand.

We visited an op shop, looking for a black top and found instead a Carlton guernsey. It was the right size. He wanted it. I was in an ethical bind.

Jake , Noah and JD at open trainingNoah with the old manJD, Noah and Mick at the Elimination Final in AdelaideMichael and another Tiger babe, the beautiful Matilda.

I told him it was too expensive. I told him the colours wouldn’t suit his complexion. I negotiated as best I could. I said we’d visit another op shop looking for a black top, and if none were to be had we’d return for the Carlton outfit.

Never has a grown man been in such dire need of a size 4 black top.

We didn’t find a black top, but chanced instead on an Adelaide Crows Auskick garment. It cost two dollars, which I thought was probably two dollars too much. Now he wanted this top. This was to be his team for the footy dress-up day. There was no persuading him otherwise.

So our boy, for this day at least, went to kindergarten as a little crow. I told him all about the coach being sacked, and what a surprise it was, but he didn’t seem to mind. He liked the colours. And sometimes, at his age, that is all that matters.

Three generations of tigersAdrian (& daughter, in Adelaide)Adrian (& family on the road at Bordertown)

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Two weeks ago, when Richmond played Port Adelaide, I had a piece published in the op-ed pages of the Sunday Age on this vexed topic. For TTBB readers, here is a full copy of what I wrote:

“When children are born in Victoria they are wrapped in club-colours, laid in beribboned cots, having already begun a lifetime’s barracking.”

Fitzroy-born poet, Bruce Dawe, seasoned at a time when inner-suburban grounds were like churches, in the opening line of Life Cycle begins the narrative arc of the football follower. Our fate, for many, comes pegged already to a ladder. We’re born into allegiance. Our ancestry has a song. Barracking is our birthright.

It’s a peculiar Melbourne inheritance, steeped in a city divided long ago among twelve clubs, each representing a suburb, a recruiting zone, a mentality, a sense of belonging. Love is blind, but for all born on the flats of Collingwood, it could also only be black and white.

Seven weeks ago, I took our eldest child, a four-year-old boy, to his first game of football and faced a philosophical dilemma. What is it to raise a child? As a father, I want to impart values of trust, respect and fairness. But is it reasonable to also give them a team? Should they know how to spell Riewoldt? Is it ethical to make them barrack for Richmond?

Faouzi Daghistani (& his centre half forward line, & Dylan)Brian (& a contested posession & his two girls at the MCG)David and Gigi

Our first game together was Port Adelaide versus my team, the Tigers. On a Sunday, I dressed our son in yellow and black and we caught a train – crossing the Yarra, rounding the broken clock on the silo, the blistered paint on the ‘Rosella’ sign – and it felt a Melbourne rite of passage. His bag was packed with snacks and colouring pencils. Mine was filled with hope and pride.

“I want to see them kick goals and I want your team to win,” he had said, over breakfast. “Dad, do you want your team to win?”

But at the game, I had no clear answers for his inquiries; I couldn’t resolve whether it’s enough for him to simply follow his father’s choices. This social responsibility could determine a lifetime of happiness. Resilience is a current catchcry in child-raising, but with my team back then in twelfth spot on the ladder and with uncertain prospects, it seemed hardly fair to crush his spirit before it’s yet fully formed.

“Carn, they cry, Carn,” wrote Dawe in his revered verse about Melbourne’s dual fealties of family and football. “Parents playfully tussle with them for possession of a rusk: Ah, he’s a little Tiger! (And they are…)”

At the game, I was flooded with sentimentality. The day’s activity linked generations. I thought of my father, and our afternoons long ago together at the football, and our easy conversations about the game, and how our lives slowly part. He goes for the Bombers. He allowed me to choose my own team. Is this the guide to follow?

“Why do they need grass on the ground and not mud,” he asks, his mind pliable and for now maybe swayed by the children’s television cartoon, Peppa Pig. My team, unexpectedly, were in front and playing well and here was an opportunity for subtle persuasion. I plant the idea of Richmond. “Dad, do you know I barrack for all the teams,” he retorts. “When are the Swans playing against the Cats?”

This Sunday afternoon – father’s day – my team again play Port Adelaide and for now I again tiptoe about the subject. I follow my father’s lead. An old friend (two of his three sons are Tigers, the eldest switched to Fremantle in defiance,) is picking me up and together we’re driving to Adelaide. For eight hours we’ll probably talk about life and families and football. For eight hours driving back into the night I hope only to talk of football.

I know I cannot prescribe a team for our eldest son, but I’m not sure he has much choice. My father allowed me free will, but my father didn’t write a blog about the meaning of football (collaborating with a graphic designer football-dad in Hobart, and a researcher football-dad based in the Netherlands), and my father did not hand-stitch clothes and banners in his team’s colours to wear to the game. That is, my father was relatively normal.

I am open-minded about these things. It is his life to live. Our little boy can choose his own team – so long as it isn’t Carlton, or Essendon (my fondness for them having waned these past two years). As with all football followers, I live with hope. Richmond will win on father’s day and our son, he’ll make a perfectly considered decision to be a little Tiger.

Kirsty McConnell’s daughter (& her uncle, on Elimination Final day)Hell Bell (& her son, and dad)Jack Soward (& dad, both across from Tassie)Jim Alexander (& sons)

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Of course Richmond didn’t win on that Sunday and there is no assurance our boy will be a little Tiger, and I cannot force the issue.

What I do know is that one of the most enjoyable pieces I’ve read on TTBB this year was written by Chris Rees about taking his son, Marcus, to the game in Sydney. It was a weekend away – sitting in the cheer squad, Marcus on the ground and helping raise the banner – those two may remember for the rest of their lives.

Chris and Marcus 2007 v DonsChris and Marcus 2014 v Swans

It is only an idea, but I like it: of having lifelong memories with either of our two boys, together at the football, if that is what they want. But I know right now, this is never going to happen if he turns out to be a little Crow.

Generous Tigers: Paul Allen and his son, Jack, who offered the tickets I used when I took our son to his first game of AFL football (big Tiger hugs) Sibling rivalry: At Arden Street on Thursday, unkempt and along to barrack for my big sis and both of us wearing our colours (GO ROO BOYS!!!!)

I’m with you Footy Troof, but I’d add voting to the footy barracking. I’d feel like a failure as a parent if my kids voted conservative :-)! As for footy, it is a wonderful activity for families to bond over, and in our case fight over. My son hates footy and everything about it (he wanted to wear a home made HAZMAT suit on footy day at school) and my oldest daughter is once again threatening to follow Gold Coast after the Port Adelaide loss. But at least we are communicating and doing things as a family. As usual, Dugald has captured the spirit of footy families perfectly. Another great piece!

You’ve certainly captured the feeling of family Dugald, well don (again). My kids are 4th generation Tigers. When our eldest was born she was prem so we had the Rolls Royce suite at the Royal Womens. It overlooked Victoria Park. I told her I didn’t care what she did in life as long as it was legal , she was happy and she didn’t follow the tribe from that place over there (she was 3 days old at this stage). Our daughters are both Tigers and for me it makes life that little bit easier during footy season. I’ll be home soon for a fleeting visit and I’ll make sure your young fella has some Tiger gear for the next time he has to dress up, have a kick with dad and for 2015…………the Year of The Tigers….

I’m with the others – one must baptise one’s child into the football team religion from birth. So they know no different. Otherwise, sneaky relatives swoop in and before you know it you have another Pies supporter on your hands, or another Blue. Or some kid in Grade 5 persuades them to follow their team. It’s not as though they actually analyse all the teams available and make a rational choice, they go by jumper colour or who their best mate barracks for.
And then you can go to all the games together, which is a wonderful thing even if the Tigers are losing.
Thanks, Dugald, for all your wonderful writing this year, and to Chris for all the fab webby work, and Andy for his thoughts from afar.
2015 will be our year, you mark my words.

We were a Richmond family. Mum’s uncle played for The Tigers and was a Richmond great. My brother inherited Uncle Ray’s ability and at 16 yo was signed by St Kilda FC. Wanted him @ Richmond but not to
be.
His son has ability and was Best on Ground in a game where he received free tickets to a game- Richmond v Stkilda. I quizzed my brother on who he was going to be supporting.
Richmond was the reply.
They won the game & we were all happy. Just like the good old days….

Skippy was spot on with her comment about swooping relatives. My (defiant) sister rejected Richmond when we moved to Adelaide. When her son was born I took immediate action and gave him a Richmond guernsey (which I later had signed by Chris Newman, if you don’t mind!)

As a side note, I hope to share a piece about growing up Richmond in Adelaide, and why I have such a disl

I took similar action for my other nephews, with great success. Cries of “Richmond is the best, better than the rest” are music to my ears, especially when I didn’t even teach them! (Although it does lose its charm for the 10th time in a row)

Jokes aside, I’m really looking forward to making some great memories.

I still remember being about 11 years old, listening to Richmond v North Melbourne on ABC radio with Dad, sitting around a campfire in the middle of the Flinders Ranges. We hugged when Richmond clinched a last minute victory.

Despondent? Only a little and for just a short time after the Elimination Final result.

Give up on the Tiges! Never!

Just on kids and their parents: Probably the greatest love between me and my DOD was our shared belief in the RFC. I was lucky to sire three sons and a daughter. The continuation of a tradition, I smugly thought.

Trotted off to the footy with my little tribe of tigers, week after week. They saw the mighty kicks of Bustling Billy Barrot; that famous centre-line, Barrot, Bourke and Clay; the magic of Royce: the rucking genius of Mike Green; the bewildering KB, Swoop, Swamp Fox and many others.

Tigers for life, you would back it in, right? Wrong!

My eldest son spent most of his teenage years and early adulthood in NZ (due to my marriage breakup), married a Kiwi, returned to Oz only to settle in Queensland and raised his own family in that rugby (then) state. Second son chose soccer and never mentioned Richmond again. Son #3 not interested in Aussie Rules – neither was his sister.

Now I rely on a stepson and his boys to carry on the tradition. One of his lads now has a son of his own born during the 2014 season. My wife knitted a tiny Richmond jumpsuit and a jumper for the little one.

A quick thanks on Dugald and Andy’s behalf to you James and everyone else who has commented and given us energy to keep writing and doodling. We are already talking about TTBB for 2015. I have a good feeling about the Tiges and that’s all I am going to say.

Hi dugald, thanks for another great year of blogs. I must confess when I had my kids and they were old enough to understand I said to them you can barak for whoever you want but as long as you live in this house your tigers. A few years on and my daughter asked ( dad is everybody’s blood red? I replied yes love except for mine. She looked at me with a weird look on her face. I said mine is yellow and black. We had a laugh after that.
In summery, the beauty about bringing kids into this world is there’s no rite or wrong way in regards to baraking we do the best we can for our kids and hope they follow.
All the best to all over the summer months and look foward to singing our song in the new year.